I Promise, You'll Never be Alone
by dauntlesszemrys
Summary: Sherlock has been away. But this time, he has a girlfriend. Warning! If you haven't seen the new series 3 episodes of Sherlock, then don't read this until you do. Bromance John and Sherlock NO SLASH. SherlockxOFC
1. Chapter 1

3 months previous…

The guards were shouting something she couldn't understand, the words were moving too fast by her ears. They opened her cell door and threw in a heap of bones, or so it seemed, and promptly left, snickering to themselves. She scoot forward on her knees and turned over the man, who groaned in pain. He was handsome most certainly, long shaggy raven curls sticking to his forehead, slick with sweat and blood. The stranger had sharp cheekbones and deep cupid's bow lips, perfect for kissing had they not been split and covered in dried blood. She pushed the hair from his forehead and examined his wounds closely. An open cut on his head, deep, bruises decorated his chest and plenty of scrapes littered around the pale creamy skin. He jolted awake under her gentle touch and backed away, afraid to be beaten again.

"Пожалуйста не бойтесь меня! Я не хочу травмировать Вас, я только хочу помочь." (_Please don't be afraid of me! I don't want to hurt you, I only want to help_.) She whispered gently, desperate to keep him calm. He nodded, understanding the Russian and eased back to her side again. The bleeding had to be stopped if he were to heal properly. Healing had never been her specialty, but she had to give it a shot for this mysterious stranger. "Я могу излечить Вас?" (_Can I help you?_) She asked gently. He nodded a yes and she ripped the hem of her black shirt to make a bandage, pressing it to his forehead.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he said, his voice like satin over steel. The baritone was a calming sound compared to the harsh Russian voices outside their cell.

"Svetlana Copesk," She replied, smiling the slightest, her dry lips cracking and hurting. The bleeding on his cut stopped and she pulled away from the pink skin, throwing the rag into a corner of their cell.

"Why are you in this awful place?" She asked, wanting to know Sherlock. Grimacing, he turned to face her.

"I was caught." He said simply. She smiled, knowing better than to ask more questions than he was willing to answer. He gazed her over, eyes calculating and sharp. She sat perfectly still, allowing him to look her over. Svetlana never considered danger. There was no aura of any notions to hurt her, and she knew he had a gentle core.

"You were a sniper for the Russian army before you turned double agent for a group of rebels. They have tortured you for information, but a soldier never tells. So you remain here. You have no family which is why you joined the army in the first place. You're capable of killing any living thing. A crack shot and a master of martial arts." He said quietly. She smiled and nodded.

"Correct Mr. Holmes," she conceded. They stayed in the cell for two months together, the door only opening for food and water. His mind was brilliant and it fascinated her. He cracked a small smile and she giggled at the way it creased his face, making his ethereal looks into something quite adorable. They huddled close together most days, and he would explain the web he was tracking down; how he was close to destroying the final bit, the final string of the web. She explained her involvement with the rebellion, her parents being killed in a car crash and being left as an orphan on the streets of Moscow. He held her hands while she told him about all she had been through, and how alone she was. He told her about his John, his best and only friend. He told her stories about his cases and the extraordinary way he came to conclusions. They recognized loneliness in each other. Sherlock told her what he saw when he looked around and she called it beautiful. She called his mind a work of art.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Present…

"Захватите его." (_Grab him._) A gruff man said as the door creaked open. Svetlana felt terror for her new friend and shot up to protect him. He stared up at her in wonder at her willingness to save him. The speaking guard reached forward for her and her instincts reacted too late, pulling her from Sherlock's side to get to the broken man.

"Оставьте его в покое и возьмите меня вместо этого! Пожалуйста не травмируйте его!" (_Leave him alone and take me instead! Please don't hurt him!_) She shouted at them, kicking out to wrench out of the evil man's grip. Tears slipped down her face as the fierce need to be with Sherlock ripped through her chest. He couldn't leave now, not when they had formed a bond. They couldn't take away the only man that had treated her like a person and not filth. She was so alone and he had made her feel warm. He could see past the lies and lavish in the truth. Sherlock was pulled up by his arms and dragged up to face her.

"Вы сделали друга? Она не хочет, чтобы Вы были травмированы, как конфета. Cмотрите на ее попытку cэкономить Вас." (_Have you made a friend? She doesn't want you to be hurt, how sweet. Look at her trying to save you._) He sneered at them. She fought forward and laid a kiss at his forehead, to convey some comfort. His body melted into her kiss and their eyes locked.

"Я приеду для Вас. Я получу Вас отсюда, я обещаю." (_I will come for you. I will get you out of here, I promise._) He said, his lips meeting hers for a brief moment. Sparks erupted from their tender embrace, telling the other all that could not be expressed by words. Darkness filled the air again as he was ripped away and she was thrown into the tile wall.

"Sherlock!" She screamed through the bars in the window at the top of the steel door.

"It's okay Svetlana! It's okay! It's o-AH!" He screamed out and she shouted at them to stop, but they kept going. They wouldn't stop hitting his flesh with a sickening thwack as a whip greeted it mercilessly. Sleep hit her in waves, forcing her to lay her head down and close her reddened eyes on the dried tears.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A ruckus awakened her from her endless dark sleep, making her sit up in confusion.

"Mycroft I will not leave without her so give me the keys to the cell. DO IT!" Sherlock said to someone, the voices fast approaching.

"Sherlock! Sherlock please!" She shouted, sticking her hands through the bars to alert him. Hands met hers and gripped tight.

"Svetlana I'm here! I'm getting you out of here, I promised. Mycroft, give me the damn keys!" He said to someone out of Svetlana's line of sight.

"Hurry," the other man insisted. She withdrew her hands long enough for the key to turn in the lock and the door to creak open. Strength left her and she collapsed into Sherlock's arms, his rough beard scratching her scalp but she didn't care.

"Come on, we have to go," He willed her to stand and, grabbing her hand, led her out of the doors and to a helicopter parked outside the door in the snow. Boarding was difficult with her weakened limbs, but she managed enough. They buckled in side by side and she did not let go of his long hand, his skeletal fingers covering her petite hand.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The lair, for lack of a better word to describe it, was dark, yet comforting. Mycroft Holmes had provided clothing, toiletries, makeup, and a haircut to her which she gladly accepted. Sherlock obviously disapproved of him but begrudgingly thanked him when he took care of Svetlana. Sherlock's hair was to be cut and the beard to be shaved according to Mycroft. When he had found her and they had smuggled out of the torture bunker, he had been sweaty and bloodied, his long hair was tangled. He had bruises around his wrists from the shackles that held him up to be beaten.

Anthea, Mycroft's assistant, had tended to Svetlana while Sherlock was cared for by his brother.

"You speak the queen's English yes?" She had asked.

"Yes," Svetlana replied. Then Anthea nodded and dressed her in a black business dress with a white blouse underneath and a red dress coat descending down to her calves, along with a pair of pretty heels.

"Anyway, you're safe now," Mycroft said. The two women looked at each other and pressed their ears against the door to listen. Sherlock made a noncommittal grunt.

"A small thank you wouldn't go amiss,"

"What for?"

"For wading in! In case you've forgotten, field work is not my natural status,"

"wading in? You stood there while I got beaten to a pulp and Svetlana was still locked in that awful cell with no one to comfort her or to bring any hope of rescue!"

"I got you and Ms. Copesk out,"

"No I got me and Svetlana out. Why didn't you intervene sooner or at least take Svetlana to safety. She could have been tortured or killed while I was gone,"

"I couldn't! I couldn't just give myself away that would have ruined everything now wouldn't it! Besides, I wasn't aware of Ms. Copesk's presence as I didn't think she was of import to you,"

"Of course she was of import to me she tried to save my life! Mycroft only two people have ever tried to save my life; John and her."

"Well then shall I expect to break the happy news to mummy that her youngest has finally settled down with a trained Russian killer. She could kill a bear with her bare hands or so I've been told by her files."

"Shut up Mycroft,"

"Make me. Anyway, do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, to smuggle into their ranks like that? The noise the people,"

"Didn't know you spoke Serbian,"

"Yes well I didn't. The language has a Slavic root. It took me a couple of hours."

"Mm you're slipping,"

"Middle age brother mine; it comes to us all. You may come in Anthea, Ms. Copesk." Mycroft demanded. The two women lowered their heads and walked into the room, ears burning. Sherlock reached a hand out to Svetlana who took it gladly and caressed the skin tenderly. He smiled at her and raised an eyebrow, as if to congratulate her on the eavesdropping. Anthea simply plastered an amused look on her face and laid Sherlock's suit onto a desk to the left. The barber finished and Sherlock wiped his face off. He tried to sit up and groaned at the stiffness of the bandages around his middle. Svetlana helped him up though he was reluctant to take it and walked him to the desk to dress.

"Sherlock I need you to give this matter you're full attention is that quite clear?" Mycroft said when Sherlock had finished dressing.

"What do you think of this shirt? Sherlock replied, oozing with sarcasm. Svetlana couldn't help but laugh and Sherlock turned to smile at her, pleased at making her happy. Mycroft only grimaced when Anthea began to chuckle as well.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft groaned irritably.

"Don't worry; I will find your underground terror cell Mycroft. Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in, every quiver of its beating heart." Sherlock said. Svetlana had heard him talk of London over and over; it was his favorite city in the entire world. She looped her arms around his middle and laid her head on his shoulder softly, his hand coming to rest over the hands above his belly button. She kissed his shoulder and he squeezed her clasped digits with his own.

"One of our men died to get this information. All the chatter, all the traffic concurs there is to be a terror strike on London, a big one." Anthea said calmly, talking as much to Svetlana as to Sherlock. Anthea knew what the Russian woman could do and trusted her to aid Sherlock. Sherlock nodded and pulled away from Svetlana for only a moment to slip his blazer on.

"The suit, it fits well," Svetlana said. He drew her in and planted a kiss to her forehead.

"I trust you have clothing and necessities for Svetlana to travel with me to London. She will come with me. Hope John doesn't mind," Sherlock said.

"John?"

"John Watson. Have you seen him?"

"Yes we meet up every Friday for fish and chips," Mycroft retorted. Anthea smiled and Svetlana held back a tiny laugh, at which Sherlock shot her an unamused look.

"I've kept an eye on him but we haven't been in touch at all to prepare him," Mycroft said seriously. Sherlock opened the file to a picture of his best friend, John Watson. Svetlana peered over his shoulder at the photo. A man with a kind face and a mustache on his upper lip stared directly into the camera, as if caught in the act of walking. She frowned at the mustache, causing him to look much older than his age of 40 as Sherlock had told her.

"The mustache, it ages." Svetlana said, pointing at the picture.

"Quite right my dear. He looks ancient. We can't be seen wondering around with an old man now can we?" Sherlock said, tossing the file to the desk and placing an arm around Svetlana's tiny shoulders. She glimpsed at the mirror and smiled at their reflection. She was always small, at 5'4" and with a petite body build. She had a heart shaped face and pronounced cheekbones, but not to Sherlock's severity. Her pale green eyes stared back at her and her pale skin was directly contrasted by her straight long black hair.

"My Russian pixie," he commented, gazing down at her and bringing her up to a kiss. Mycroft rolled his eyes behind them and sighed in distaste and the amount of physical affection his little brother was showing. Anthea grinned and went to work on whatever it was she did.

"I think I'll surprise John. Go to Baker St. and who knows maybe jump out of a cake! He'll be delighted!"

"He isn't there anymore. He's got on with his life."

"What life? I've been away,"

"Where is he going to be tonight?"

"He has dinner reservations in the Marleybone Road. Nice little spot,"

"I think I'll just drop by with Svetlana. What do you think my dear?"

"It is possible that you and your… companion… will not be welcome."

"Hmm. Now where is it?" Sherlock demanded

"Where is what?" Mycroft replied coyly. Sherlock grimaced and Anthea reappeared with a long coat. Svetlana took it off her hands and held it out for Sherlock to slip his arms in and flip it up to his shoulders, smiling at the small delight. He flipped the coat collar up casually.

"Welcome back Mr. Holmes," Anthea said lightly.

"Thank you. Now then, we must go мой эльф (_my pixie_) or we will be late for our dinner reservation. Can't leave him waiting any longer, it's been two years after all." Sherlock said to Svetlana, pointedly ignoring Mycroft and leading her through the maze of hallways to their bedroom which rested their luggage in the corner and two plane tickets to London.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


	2. Chapter 2

When they landed, Sherlock took Svetlana to rooftop where he fell, the view from the top of the building utterly astounding.

"It's beautiful Sherlock," She said, her Russia accent making all of the vowels long and difficult. They stood a fair distance away from the edge, and Svetlana knew the height was bothering him. She put an arm over him, a gesture of protection. He squeezed her arm and looked out over the city, the wind ruffling his beautiful dark curls.

"Alas, London is not as beautiful as you мой эльф." Sherlock whispered into her ear. She leaned into his tall, muscular, lean form, breathing in the scent of his cologne, cataloguing it for the future.

"Come. We have a dinner to go to," He said gently. She nodded and he gripped her shoulder, allowing her to help him down the tight stairs, his wounds from Russia still relatively new. Sherlock would never admit it, but he was in pain and he was glad Svetlana could see it when no one else could.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The restaurant was well lit from the outside and a rather decent venue. They entered the main dining area and a host walked up to them.

"Can I help you sir, ma'am?" He asked kindly.

"You're wife just texted you, possibly her contractions have started," He said kindly. Svetlana scoped the area and, nodding to Sherlock, departed to untie an apron from a woman's waist with deft fingers. Sherlock found a bowtie and a pair of glasses, taking a glance at Svetlana across the way, tying the apron around her waist and plucking the pad of paper from the apron pocket and narrowing in on John's table. She wasn't going to interfere, just watch for problems. She loomed by in a dark corner, light jade eyes examining everything. He turned once, twice and found his way to John's table with a fake mustache drawn on. She fought the urge to laugh at his French accent.

"Can I help you with anything sir?" He said in a higher toned voice. Svetlana covered her mouth with the pad of paper.

"Umm yeah I'm looking for a bottle of champagne, a good one."

"A well these are all excellent vintages," Sherlock replied.

"This really isn't my area what do you suggest?" The other man said. Svetlana smiled at the genuine ignorance and nervous bliss in John's voice. He seemed kind enough. Maybe he would take the news better than Sherlock had fret about.

"You cannot possibly go wrong but my personal recommendation; this last one," Sherlock said, pointing with the eyeliner pencil. "It is, if I might say, like a face from ze past," he said whipping off his glasses and holding his arms out.

"Right I'll have that one then," John said. Sherlock looked to Svetlana for help and she simply gave him a confused look. It wasn't even that good of a disguise, how could John not see him? His eyebrows rose and she shrugged her shoulders.

"It is familiar but with a quality of surprise," Sherlock said, striking his pose again.

"Well surprise me," John said, still not looking up from the table. Sherlock let out a breath of frustration and nabbed the menu from John's hand roughly.

"I'm certainly endeavoring to sir," He bit out, stalking off to the bottle rack. "Well that failed," Sherlock whispered to Svetlana, trying to find a bottle of champagne. She leaned over, as if to find a bottle of wine and whispered back.

"Try a different tactic. Get right in front of him so that he will be forced to notice." She suggested, pulling a bottle out as he did. Sherlock considered and then nodded covertly.

"Amazing," He whispered back, fighting the urge to kiss her and blowing his cover. She walked around the tables till she found a random couple sitting near John.

"Wine? I may suggest this bottle the vintage is superb and I see that you've almost run out of your first bottle," She pawned off. They, being too drunk to notice the change in server, thanked her and she rushed away to her corner.

"Sir I think you'll find this vintage exceptional! The color is nice and the qualities are superb and when strangers see it, it is like staring into the face of an old friend," Sherlock finished at last, pulling the glasses off slowly and setting the bottle down.

"Look seriously could you just-" John started and abruptly stopped when he looked right into Sherlock's face. The woman sitting across from John looked highly confused.

"Interesting thing a tuxedo," Sherlock said, clearly letting his nerves get the better of him after finally being discovered. Svetlana moved forward behind the table and circled around to come to the other side, pretending to wait on the family directly beside them. "It is distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters." He finished.

John rose from his table and Svetlana whipped around to watch the scene play out, not caring that her cover was blown.

"John what is it what," the woman began. The good doctor breathed heavily in and out, facing Sherlock directly and not noticing the female waiter creeping to their table and standing opposite Sherlock.

"Well, in short, not dead." Sherlock said simply. "Bit much springing it on you like that I might have given you a heart attack, probably still will as it," he joked, trying to laugh. John continued to stare angrily at him and Sherlock shifted from foot to foot, wincing only slightly at the bandages.

"Oh no you're," the woman said

"Oh yes."

"Oh my god,"

"Not quite."

"You died you jumped off a roof,"

"Nope."

"You're dead."

"No I'm quite sure I checked. 'Scuse me," Sherlock said, dipping a napkin into a water glass to wipe off his mustache.

"Does yours rub off too?" Sherlock joked weakly. "Now I realize I owe you an apology," Sherlock started but John punched the table with his clenched fist, which made Svetlana jump and rush as close to Sherlock as possible with the table in her path, not eager to get in their way. They needed to sort this out themselves.

"Two years," John wheezed out, over and over again.

"Будьте осторожны," (Be careful,) She whispered to Sherlock, the woman taking notice of the unfamiliar face at the other side of the table.

"Не волнуйтесь мой эльф, он не потряс меня." (Don't worry my pixie, he won't hurt me.) Sherlock replied to her.

"What are you saying, who are you?" Mary yelped at Svetlana, who ignored her, eyes trained on Sherlock and John Watson's murderous stare. Sherlock said nothing, staring at the floor the way a kicked puppy does. She beat her palm into her leg to keep from reaching out to him.

"I thought… you were dead," John seethed, "And you let me grieve. How could you do that? How?"

"Before you do anything you might regret I do have one question," Sherlock said, leading up to something entirely unpleasant.

"Sherlock," Svetlana warned, going unnoticed.

"Are you really going to keep that?" Sherlock laughed at last, pointing to his own upper lip.

"Sherlock!" She screeched out, his eyes wondering to her and letting down his guard. John gripped Sherlock by the front of the shirt and pushed forward. "Будьте осторожны! Он больно! Нет ! Остановить задушив его! Он - это вред!" (Be careful! He's hurt! Don't! Stop choking him! He is hurt!) Svetlana shouted, running over to the two fighting men on the ground and, cracking her neck, pulled John off of Sherlock and flipped him over onto his back in one fluid motion, leaving him to his companion while Svetlana covered Sherlock with her arms. "Остановить! Остановить! И мне будет больно!" (Stop! Stop! Come near and I will hurt you!) She shouted at John Watson, not comprehending the rapid fire Russian. He held the back of his head, probably hurting from his head bouncing off the floor when she flipped him around. "Do. Not. Touch. Him," She warned, this time in English. John dazedly blinked his eyes at the unfamiliar face and seemingly tried to recognize her.

"Who are you?" John asked while staff members helped him off the floor. They went to aid Sherlock as well, but Svetlana glared menacingly at them.

"Say you are alright. Please say it," she said helping him to sit up and pulling him to a stand, careful of his wounds. He leaned on her and blinked, the air coming back to his lungs.

"I'm alright Svetlana. Though I fear we are about to get kicked out of this lovely venue. Too bad we couldn't have dinner while we were here," He muttered to her making her giggle. He giggled too eventually, wheezing and coughing every so often from the attempt at asphyxiation.

"Out! All four of you out!" the owner shouted, shooing them out the door. John glared at Sherlock and Mary grabbed their jackets and a box that could only hold a ring inside. Sherlock eased into his coat and let out a small noise of pain.

"Have you ripped them open?" She anxiously wondered, holding tight to his long hand. He squeezed tighter and brought her close.

"One, though it doesn't seem to bleeding. Just light spotting I suppose. No need to worry about me," he said. She laughed, though it was unamused and angsty.

"Don't worry, don't worry. Easy for you to say when you are intent on making me worry so much." She grumbled, her Russian accent lilting on the w's, turning them to v's. He grunted in response.

The group of four turned into a little café and settled into a booth, Sherlock sitting with Svetlana on one side and John with Mary on the other. They stared at each other for a long time before Sherlock broke the silence, looking to Svetlana for guidance.

"There were 13 possibilities and I wanted to avoid dying if at all possible," He said, his voice taking on the sultry tone it fell into when he made deductions.

"You know for a genius you can be remarkably thick," John accused.

"What?" Sherlock replied.

"I don't care how you faked it, I want to know why." John resolutely stated. Svetlana knew the why and it was all too painful to recollect. Sherlock wasn't a particularly open person when it came to pain, specifically his emotionally pain. He breathed out and Svetlana held onto his knee.

"Why? Because Moriarty had to be stopped… oh. Why as in? I see… yes why. That's a bit more difficult to explain," Sherlock said, voice hitching almost imperceptibly. Almost.

"I've got all night," John stated, crossing his arms.

"Actually that was Mycroft's idea," Sherlock diverted the subject minutely, avoiding the actual why.

"Oh so it's your brother's plan?" John mocked. Svetlana glared at his teasing, not finding it at all funny.

"He would have needed a confidant! Sorry," Mary said. Svetlana smiled at her, liking her accepting nature already. She could take a fine liking to Mary. The other woman shrugged her shoulders at Svetlana and widened her eyes in jest.

"But he was the only one? The only one who knew,"

"A-a couple of others. It was a very elaborate plan, it had to be," Sherlock defended. "The next of the 13 poss-"

"Who else? Who else knew? Who?" John demanded.

"Molly," Sherlock forced out at last. "Molly Hooper and some of my helpers now that's ALL."

"And so I suppose this is one of your little helpers then. You tell this woman I don't even know but you don't bother to tell me anything," John practically shouted, pointing a finger in Svetlana's direction. Sherlock tightened his fist in his lap and clenched his jaw.

"She has A NAME! She is not just a little helper and I suggest that you tread lightly around the subject John because it will not end prettily if you insult her in my presence," Sherlock threatened, voice rising in volume. John backed up in shock, never having heard such a blatant threat roll out at him from Sherlock.

"Дарлинг пожалуйста это нормально, я не возражаю. Он испугался и в шоке, он не знает," (Darling please it's alright, I don't mind. He is scared and in shock, he doesn't know.) She whispered gently into his ear, rubbing his leg and holding onto his arm. He breathed out in quick bursts, attempting to reign in his temper.

"Я знаю. Я просто хочу, чтобы вы уважали. Вы так много значат для меня мой эльф." (I know. I just want you to be respected. You mean so much to me my pixie.) Sherlock replied back, holding onto her hand from under the table.

"Her name is Svetlana Copesk," Sherlock said, clearly still angry.

"Okay then. So what you're saying is, that you told you're plan to your brother, Molly Hooper and about 100 tramps," John said, pointing a stare at her, getting his little digs where he could get them. Sherlock clenched his jaw, and slammed the table with both hands, standing up and reaching for John, pulling the ex-army medic from the table and throwing a punch to John's cheek, connecting hard knuckle to jaw and breaking the skin a bit. Svetlana got in between the two and stopped the blows, turning Sherlock around to cool off. She turned to John Watson and kicked his feet out from under him, sweeping down and executing a turn before kneeling beside the dazed man and placing a hand near his head as intimidation,

"He did warn you." She said roughly, rising to her feet and straightening out the dress front. "I believe we are not welcome here anymore," Svetlana announced to Sherlock who noticed the owner of yet another restaurant approaching them angrily.

"I do believe you are correct," He muttered, leading Svetlana out by the hand. The other couple left directly behind and following them to an awful looking diner. Sherlock held open the door for Svetlana and gathered a napkin from one of the dingy tables.

"To stop the bleeding," Sherlock said, holding the napkin at arm's length to John for his cheek.

"Right," John muttered, pressing down on the cut gingerly.

"So it isn't a joke, you're really keeping it?" Sherlock asked, trying to ease tension.

"Yeah," John replied shortly, occasionally checking on how much blood was pouring out of his cheek.

"Sure?" Sherlock asked.

"Mary likes it," John said.

"No she doesn't," Svetlana joined the conversation, holding a bit of contempt for the doctor, like a sore spot that flared up from time to time.

"Who are you to" John started at Svetlana, inching forward just enough for Sherlock to step in front of her and reach his arms behind to protect the petite woman.

"Right sorry. But she does," John backed off and Sherlock's muscles eased, but he did not stop protecting Svetlana.

"Doesn't," Sherlock replied dryly. John looked to Mary and she flustered, making a sympathetic face.

"Oh, brilliant that's fantastic," John complained.

"I didn't know how to tell you," Mary began.

"This is charming, I've really missed this," John miffed. "One word, Sherlock, all I would have needed was one word to let me know that you were alive," John seethed, forcing himself into Sherlock, backing up slightly. Sherlock, gripped tight to Svetlana, who remembered the cowering they had done together, wincing at the guards who tormented them day after day, shouting abuse into their faces.

"I tried to make contact numerous times but I was afraid you would be indiscreet," Sherlock defended himself.

"What?"

"Let the cat out of the bag."

"Oh so this is my fault? Why am I the only one who thinks that this is wrong; the only one reacting like a human being!" John shouted, validating Sherlock's fears of being indiscreet.

"Overreacting," Sherlock said distastefully.

"Overreacting! Overreacting! So you fake your own death and you walk in here large as bloody life but I'm not supposed to have a problem with that. No because Sherlock Holmes thinks it's a perfectly OKAY THING TO DO!"

"SHUT UP!" Svetlana yelled, causing John to look at her in surprise. She stepped aside and stood directly in front of John.

"It's not like we want the entire world to know that he is still alive!" She fumed at him.

"Is it a secret then?" John demanded mocking her accent outrageously.

"Yes it is still a secret! Now promise you won't tell anyone," She ordered.

"SWEAR TO GOD," John shouted in her face. She stood her ground, not giving him an inch. He may have been an army doctor, but she was a trained killer. She was a woman who had killed far more than she wanted to think about and was considered highly dangerous by her own ranks.

"Dr. Watson, Sherlock's London is in danger. There is to be an imminent terrorist attack and we need your help," she insisted, trying her best to remain calm. John gave her an incredulous look and turned to Mary, mocking shock.

"My help?" He said.

"You've missed it, haven't you? The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins," Sherlock said, a bit on the arrogant side. John pushed Svetlana out of the way and executed a head butt, causing Sherlock's nose to erupt in blood. Seeing his blood on his face again, smelling the coppery scent, made her jump into action and drag Sherlock to a chair, pressing napkin upon napkin to his face.

"No, no, no, no, no," She whispered, pressing to stop the flow of blood. He had lost so much already and needn't loose anymore.

"Just a nosebleed Svetlana. Trivial. I've been in much worse condition, but you know that already," Sherlock joked. Svetlana laughed and let Sherlock take over, helping him out the door and to the street before the third angry owner of the night could order them away.

"I said I was sorry, isn't that what you're supposed to do," Sherlock said to Mary as they stood outside. The woman gazed at Svetlana for a small second and shook her head.

"Lord you don't know anything about human nature do you?" She questioned. It wasn't mean spirited or to convey an insult, but more of a mere statement.

"Nature, no. Human? More than one might believe." Sherlock retorted from behind his bloodied cloths.

"I'll talk him round. Congratulations you two, you make a beautiful couple." Mary said; more to Svetlana than Sherlock. Svetlana smiled her thanks as the blonde woman joined her soon fiancé in their cab that drove off up the street and around the corner.

"Let's get you cleaned up and have a little rest, yes?" Svetlana crooned softly, making Sherlock smile, heading in the opposite direction to Baker Street, her new home.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock's landlady, and something of a mother to him, had fainted when they arrived at 221B Baker Street.

"Oh!" Svetlana called in surprise, whipping around to save her head from a rather dizzying blow.

"Carry her into the flat and onto one of the chairs, I'll find something to bring her around," Svetlana implored, the orders Sherlock gladly accepted. Hoisting the frail elderly woman into his arms, he carried her to her kitchen table and set her down on the chair, arranging her limbs to avoid any discomfort.

"Ah, here it is," Svetlana said, holding up a vial from the cabinet and moving to the woman. "Just open the bottle and…" she whispered, holding the vial underneath Mrs. Hudson's nose. The elderly woman breathed in, catching the scent of the vial and jolted awake, progressing slowly until she was fully able to control her body again.

"Oh my god Sherlock! My boy! Sherlock!" She exclaimed, pulling him down to kiss his cheeks and forehead. He politely smiled letting her hug him with as much strength as she could manage.

"Hello Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said kindly.

"Oh let me up deary! I never let out the flat and everything is right where you left it," Mrs. Hudson bustled out of the chair, not noticing the strange Russian woman standing in the doorway.

"Oh. Who are you?" She asked kindly.

"My name is Svetlana Copesk. Sherlock met me on his… travels in Russia. Ended up saving my life," Svetlana replied, carefully avoiding the truth. Sherlock smiled at her and pulled her into his body, kissing the top of your head.

"Oh lovely Sherlock! Well Baker Street is your home now my dear," Mrs. Hudson finished, patting their entwined arms and walking up the stairs to Baker Street. The three made their way up the stairs into the dusty flat, sunlight desperately seeking purchase through the heavy maroon curtains.

"It's exactly as I left it. Well, with a tad bit more dust than I previously remember," Sherlock said to Svetlana behind the landlady.

"I'll let you two get sorted," Mrs. Hudson said. "Good to have you back dear." She pat Sherlock's cheek and was gone, shutting the door behind her.

"Now that we are completely alone for the first time," Sherlock said, pulling her in and stroking designs onto her back.

"Oui, maintenant que nous sommes complètement seul," (_Yes now that we are completely alone,_)

"You speak French?" Sherlock said, surprised.

"Oui," Svetlana said coyly, pressing her lips to his, with less desperation as in Russia. He languidly let his coat and blazer fall to the floor in a heap of fabric. She let her own red coat fall away, kicking out of the heels and pushing him backwards to the couch. He fell onto his back and Svetlana straddled his hips, kissing him with vivacity. He sagged away from her, his body going lax.

"Sherlock?" Svetlana questioned, pulling away. He snored in response and she smiled softly, letting off of him slowly. She scoot him towards the very inside of the couch and snuggled up very closely next to him, one hand on his pulse, and her ear over his heart. She didn't wake till morning.

Svetlana woke up alone and whipped up and around.

"Sherlock," she called, panicked.

"Sherlock!" She shouted this time. Had they found them, could they have strung him up in the kitchen? What if the spider Moriarty had come back? What if Sherlock was taken by the terrorists? Her mind turned around and around in circles. She scrambled up off the couch and ran through the kitchen and to the bedroom with no sign of him.

"SHERLOCK!" she shouted tears washing down her face at finding all the rooms completely empty. She ran back to the main room when the door opened on Sherlock and a silver haired man.

"Svetlana what's happened?" Sherlock said worriedly. She sobbed into the palm of her hand and rushed forward to grasp the maddening detective around the waist, pressing her face to his strong chest.

"Не смей никогда оставьте меня в покое, как это снова, не сказав мне, куда вы идете! Я думал, что они нашли вас и убил тебя! Я испугался!" (_Don't you dare ever leave me alone like that again without telling me where you're going! I thought they had found you and killed you! I got scared!_) she muttered, ignoring the silver haired man.

"О, мой эльф Мне очень жаль. Ах, боже мой бог, я не думал. Я должен был сообщить им, я был жив, и я дал не одну мысль к вам! Я думал, ты бы еще спать." (_Oh my pixie I am so sorry. Oh dear god I wasn't thinking. I had to let them know I was alive and I gave not one thought to you! I thought you would still be sleeping_.) Sherlock said back, kissing her hair over and over again. She pulled away to look up at him and he wiped away a few of the errant tears with his calloused thumb.

"Greg Lestrade here. Doesn't speak Russian so has absolutely no clue what's going on or who you are," the silver haired man interrupted.

"Svetlana Copesk." She held out her hand and he shook it, confused that the dark haired woman was still wrapped in Sherlock's embrace, with mussed hair, and wearing Sherlock's dressing robe.

"And you two? Sherlock, is she your girlfriend?" Lestrade said, pointing at Svetlana.

"I brought you here to give me the files on the people I talked about now you can stay here but my brother is going to be here in a half an hour and Svetlana needs something much more suitable to wear, however the blue looks absolutely beautiful on her skin this morning," Sherlock finished. Svetlana giggled and drew the heaps of silky blue around her body, covering everything. Lestrade reddened and handed over the files to Sherlock.

"Just like old times," Greg noted as the files passed between them.

"Indeed Detective Inspector. Indeed." Sherlock said. Lestrade nodded his goodbyes and departed the flat with a smile on his face.

"Now, you need clothes and I need to work. Tea?" he said.

"Tea, what?" Svetlana teased.

"Tea please?" Sherlock replied with a cheesy grin. Svetlana nodded a yes and ran her hand over his cheekbone.

"Good boy."

"Will you help?"

"Of course Sherlock!" She laughed out, walking to his-now their- bedroom and picking out a pair of dark wash jeans with a black shirt and black high heeled boots. She combed through her hair, shaking it out once. The kettle boiled and she placed the tea bags into two mugs that she cleaned of all dust with a wet washcloth.

"I'm going to borrow a little milk and sugar from Mrs. Hudson!" Svetlana called, walking down the stairs and knocking on the landlady's door.

"London is like a great cesspool into which all kinds of criminals, agents, and drifters are irresistibly drained. Sometimes it's not a question of whom, but a question of who knows. If this man cancels his papers, I need to know. If this woman leaves London without putting her dog into kennels, I need to know. Certain people, they are markers. If they start to move I'll know something is up. Like rats deserting a sinking ship." He said after she had gotten their tea and set it down on the coffee table. She smiled and sipped at her cup in thought, looking over the map and pictures Sherlock had pinned to the wall.

"All interesting theories Sherlock," a man's voice said from the doorway.

"Mycroft," Svetlana said, turning around to face him and smile predatorily at the elder brother.

"Svetlana, it is good to see you yet again. You look well. I can't say the same for my dear brother." Mycroft said sitting down in the red leather chair across from Sherlock, who pulled out a board game Svetlana didn't see the name of from her angle.

"Would you like to play?" Sherlock asked. Svetlana rolled her eyes and sighed. They were overgrown children, even if they wouldn't admit it to each other.

"I'm going out to get a little food. Neither of us eats much but we need to survive on more than tea and Mrs. Hudson's crisps." She called, taking her red coat off the rack and flipping the coat collar up as she shrugged it onto his shoulders.

"There is a mobile in your jacket pocket I want you to turn it on and always keep it with you. I need to know if something happens." Sherlock announced, bounding out of his chair and going to Svetlana in the doorway.

"I can handle myself you know," She said, turning the phone on anyway.

"I know you can. You did flip John onto his back like a sack of flour after all," Sherlock breathed. Svetlana smiled and kissed Sherlock; chaste and sweet.

"Like that did you? We can spar later. First, I must get food." She teased, pulling away and galloping down the stairs.

The shop hadn't been crowded and Svetlana took a cab back to Baker Street in only a half hour. Sherlock was now standing in front of his brainstorming wall.

"Mycroft left then?" Svetlana said, placing the brown grocery bags down on the kitchen table.

"Yes, but I want no words of my hideous blood," Sherlock said, pulling her to his chest and wrapping her up in the maroon dressing gown he wore, tying it around them and securing it snuggly. They moved their feet together in sync, collapsing back on the couch.

"Svetlana, would you like to solve crimes with me?" Sherlock asked. She pretended to ponder his request for a moment before replying.

"I think that would be lovely. A woman such as myself would be bored to death without a little excitement."

"Perfect, because a client is heading up the stairs in three," Sherlock said, untying his Russian beauty from the robe and letting her fall back onto the couch.

"Two," She said in a steady voice, helping Sherlock into a suit jacket and tossing the robe over the back of his chair.

"One," Sherlock finished as a well-dressed couple mounted the stairs and knocked on the living room door."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" the man said for his wife. The corners of Sherlock's lips turned up in a smug smile and he turned to face his clients.

"Yes, hello, please take a seat," Sherlock indicated while facing the opposite wall. Svetlana sat on Sherlock's chair, spread out over the leather languidly.

"May I say what a fan we both are? We always believed you were right. Our favorite was the Professor" the wife said kindly. Sherlock pursed his lips and smacked them apart to talk.

"Yes that case, surprisingly involved a pair of Monkey glans. But enough about that, tell me about your case Mr. Harcort."

"Our bank account was broken into and we don't know how. Absolutely no one should have been in that bank account other than myself and Helen," the man said.

"Well why didn't you assume it was your wife?" Sherlock asked, slinking over to the man in an intimidating manner. Advancing on him like a feline with claws at the ready. Mr. Harcort watched Sherlock approach with extreme caution, wary of what he would say. Svetlana sat up, noticing the sweat start at his hairline, knowing what Sherlock was on to. She didn't know how to deduce people like Sherlock did. In fact, she was positive no one other than Mycroft knew how to compete with Sherlock's unusual skill. However, she knew body language. She knew by the way people held themselves whether they were liars. She knew by the way they walked if they were depressed or hiding something. She knew by someone's eyes that they were currently telling a plain lie. People made themselves open books with their bodies and faces, not knowing how easily the rest of human nature could read their emotions. They could try to hide things certainly, but their physicality won't let them get away with it.

"Because I've always had total faith in her," He tried calmly to reply.

"Liar." Svetlana said simply. Sherlock turned to her, obviously pleased at her intellect, but with the slightest confusion in the tilt of his eyebrow.

"It's because you did. Weight loss, hair dye, Botox, affair, lawyer. Next!" He gave the woman a card and shooed them out of the flat without another word. As soon as they had vacated 221b, Sherlock turned on his heel and gazed at her intensely.

"How did you know he was a liar?" Sherlock asked, resting his elbows on both armrests, boxing her into the leather chair. His eyes traveled up and down Svetlana's prone form, deducing and seemingly coming up with blanks. She smiled predatorily. Their relationship was strange, but it worked. Sherlock was intense and so was Svetlana. They both fought for power, struggling to have the upper hand on the other. It was unhealthy how much they had come to love each other in such a short amount of time. Three months wasn't long to fall in love, but life or death situations made you do strange things.

Up close, Sherlock's eyes revealed more emotion than the rest of him. Svetlana could see the deduction process unfolding like a rose in the sun. Many people disliked being scrutinized by Sherlock, but Svetlana relished in it. His gaze made her feel like the only person of importance in the universe.

"I saw his eyes, they darted to the left at his wife and up at the ceiling but never directly at you. Then sweat gathered along his collar. It isn't hot in here; the radiator is broken so he's nervous. His was standing up far too straight, so he was trying to hide something and cover it up too much. Therefore he is a liar." She said calmly. Sherlock leaned into her personal space and ghosted his lips over hers.

"Do you know how much you fascinate me? You are a puzzle I'm not able to crack. You are so calculated and calm, yet you showed unimaginable fear when you thought I was gone. You rely on your ability to read people's body language and surface emotions, yet you wish to be with the one person who keeps emotion in a tightly locked box. Why?" HE mouthed kisses along her jaw and she whimpered at the contact.

"You aren't the only one who bores of regular people. I have never found a person who surprised me as much as you, it keeps me on my toes. You are amazing," She replied, attempting to keep her composure. The attempt, however, was rendered devastatingly weak when Sherlock's long porcelain hands prodded at her collarbone, playing with the sensitive skin that lay over top of the prominent bone. His voice reminded her of a jaguar, silky and dangerous. Transfixed with the overwhelming sensations, neither party noticed another pair of clients staring at them in abhorrence. Svetlana opened her eyes slowly to the elderly man and middle aged woman in the doorway.

"Do sit down. So sorry about your wait," Svetlana said, alerting the ravenous Sherlock, kneeling between her thighs and nipping at her neck aggressively. Sherlock growled into her skin and stood through the haze of ecstasy to greet them. The woman clutched a poorly abused tissue between her fingers and blew her nose into it, a sad look on her face. The woman recounted a sad tale of an online relationship and then the emails coming to an abrupt end. She blubbered and stared at the floor from behind her thick glasses.

"And your pen pal's emails just stopped, did they?" Sherlock asked, taking both of the woman's hands in his and patting them softly, transmitting comfort. She made a sad noise, meant to be taken as a yes and nodded, weeping faintly. "And you thought he was the one didn't you? The love of your life?" Sherlock asked, receiving another nod. Svetlana stared hard at the stepfather sitting on the couch glaring at the woman and fidgeting with his phone, pretending to be uninterested. Sherlock turned to Svetlana, his face black and impassive. The woman started to bleat and cry, the tears now flowing down her cheeks.

"Stepfather posing as online boyfriend," Sherlock whispered to her, facing towards the fireplace on the other side of the room.

"Why?" Svetlana replied from her place on the chair at the desk, which she had occupied while Sherlock interviewed.

"Breaks it off, breaks her heart. She swears off relationships and stays at home so he still has her wage coming in," Sherlock muttered. He turned towards the man not attempting to give comfort to his stepdaughter.

"Mr. Wheetlybank you have been a complete and utter pisspot!" Sherlock said angrily. Svetlana could see that Sherlock did care, despite what other people thought. He didn't understand why someone would strive to hurt an individual they loved. The man got up to try and punch Sherlock, but the detective beat him to it, jabbing him straight between the eyes. The woman let out a sound of surprise.

"I suggest you move out of your stepfather's house and find someone who loves you." Sherlock suggested. His mobile rang in his pocket as the woman nodded and dragged her disoriented arsehole of a stepfather down the stairs.

"Yes?" Sherlock said into the phone at his ear, shifting from foot to foot and burying his hand in his trouser pocket casually.

"Oh?" Sherlock said. "Be right there," Sherlock ended the call and rushed to get his heavy coat on, holding Svetlana's out for her, his blue scarf hanging undone around the glorious column of pale neck.

"We have a case. The game is on мой эльф."


	4. Chapter 4

The crime scene looked like one straight off of a cheesy show from the telly. The DI, Greg Lestrade, pulled the yellow tape from the door frame.

"This one's got us all baffled," Lestrade started.

"I don't doubt it," Sherlock replied with dry humor, smiling impishly at Svetlana and making her giggle softly. The door creaked open and the distinct smell of old stale dust hit her nose, making her want to sneeze. The staircase descending down to the scene was dark and the stairs were concrete. Ducking her head and gripping Sherlock's hand, they went through a large gaping hole in a brick wall. Lestrade turned a light on, giving everything an eerie glow.

The room was completely enclosed and the ceiling was rounded like a half circle. The desk and chair sat in the middle, a skeleton which was completely dressed sat at the desk. Its arm was outstretched, begging for some company. Sherlock scrunched his nose and approached the desk with trepidation. Svetlana stood watch a few feet away and observed. Tools were laid out on the desk and Sherlock carefully plucked them from their place to aid him when needed. He sniffed like a hound, then straightened and held his phone in the air.

"You're onto something," Svetlana stated.

"Maybe…" Sherlock replied. "Shut up John," He whispered quietly after, shaking his head clear. Svetlana quirked her head at the behavior, hoping it would not start again. While they were imprisoned, Sherlock had occasionally heard voices that weren't there, explaining them to Svetlana, or sometimes forgetting she was there and having entire conversations with the voices. However, he hadn't spoken to them since they escaped, so Svetlana let herself foolishly lie and believe it was a temporary thing; just Sherlock compensating for loneliness.

"What?" Svetlana asked. Maybe she hadn't heard right. Maybe it was her own mind playing games with her fear. Maybe…

"Nothing," came Sherlock's fatal reply as he went back to looking around. Svetlana closed her eyes, daring her jaw to clench and show off her emotions so plainly. Lestrade looked back and forth between the two suspiciously, sensing his lack of knowledge in the room.

"So you and… her? Is that your new arrangement then?" Lestrade asked Sherlock, not making too good of a show to hide what he was whispering.

"Yes Lestrade. She does have a name you know if you care to remember it. Her name is Svetlana," Sherlock replied, most likely putting the finishing touches on his deductions from his stance and stride to rejoin her facing the desk.

"Well what about John?" Lestrade pressed.

"Svetlana is not John's replacement; she has a very special place with me. Besides, John isn't in the picture anymore," Sherlock muttered, then took a deep breath in. The sound of something rolling echoed overhead and dust fell from the ceiling.

"Trains," Svetlana observed.

"Trains," he concluded. He squat down to rest his ever pert bum on the back of his heels and studied the layout before him.

"Looks male. Didn't die of any kind of bullet wound," Svetlana said, picking at the skeleton gingerly with deft little fingers. She had seen far too many dead bodies and burnt skeletons not to know a bit about the bone structure. She didn't know much, but remembered some. Sherlock gazed over her shoulder, a strange emotion behind his eyes.

"Shut up!" He growled at himself. "Can't be any more than 6 months old," Sherlock said. He once more lowered himself to the floor and opened a side door on the desk to peer inside. In a matter of seconds, he held a book in his hands, blowing on it to remove the dust. Showing it to Svetlana, he threw it onto the desk, sending up a cloud of grey particles.

"How I did it by Jack the Ripper!" Lestrade exclaimed, looking terribly confused.

"That's interesting," Svetlana said.

"Isn't it though?" Sherlock replied, smiling genuinely. She loved that smile. It wasn't a romantic smile, but an excited smile. It proved that Sherlock could feel alive again, and feel free to celebrate his newly restored life. It gave Svetlana hope that Sherlock could attempt to return to his normalcy before his dramatic fake suicide. Greg smiled too, laughing under his breath. Sherlock shook his head and made a few noncommittal noises, hunched over his tool kit.

"I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it to you," Sherlock said, straightening up.

"No please, insult away!" Lestrade exclaimed. It was so painfully obvious how much the DI missed Sherlock, who was walking away without acknowledging Svetlana's presence. It pained her when he stopped and shook his head again.

"The.. the uh corpse is six months old. It's dressed in a Victorian outfit from a museum; it has been displayed on a dummy for many years, held in a case facing southeast judging by the fading in the fabric. It was sold off in a fire damaged sale a week ago," Sherlock said quickly, holding his phone out awkwardly for a few seconds, then letting his arm fall with no grace.

"So the whole thing was a fake?" Lestrade said, rubbing through his short hair; disappointed.

"Yes," Sherlock said shortly, then turned to leave.

"Looked so promising," Lestrade said.

"Why would someone go through all the trouble?" Svetlana called after him.

"Why indeed John." Sherlock replied. She pursed her lips and followed up, the DI close behind.

"Голоса. Он снова услышав эти чертовы голоса," (_The voices. He's hearing the damn voices again,_) Svetlana muttered under her breath.

The ride back to 221b Baker Street was quiet, Svetlana was internalizing her worry and Sherlock was busy thinking. He drew his elbow off the car window and pulled a strange woolen hat out of his coat pocket.

"Excuse me, do turn around," Sherlock told the driver, truning the hat over in his hands, as if it held the answer to the universe.

"Where to sir?" the cabbie replied with a strong cockney accent. Sherlock leaned forward and held the lining open for the driver to see.

"Here," Sherlock said simply, then replaced the hat back in his pocket and collapsed into the cushion of the leather interior. Svetlana continued to say nothing, thinking while the driver turned to travel the opposite way and down another unfamiliar road. She watched his body language closely, observing the minute little tremors in his hand. The way his body would jolt stiffly when the cab would jerk with the flow of traffic pulled at the heart Svetlana hadn't been aware she possessed until this strange beautiful man was thrown into her dank cell all those months ago. Sherlock was showing all signs of PTSD and Svetlana had seen it enough to know what it looked like, how it started, and how it ravished the mind till there was nothing left. Despite the constant mask of indifference, Sherlock felt emotion. In fact, he probably felt emotion stronger than his more average counterparts. Pain and sorrow could drive him insane.

"We're here," The cabbie stopped the car at the side and Sherlock paid the fare, allowing Svetlana to climb out first before he got out and shut the door. The renters building had glass front doors and the outside was brick. It didn't look like much, but a decent habitat none the less. They walked inside and rang the doorbell to the appropriate flat. **MindthegapMindthegap** the doorbell said. Sherlock quirked a lopsided eyebrow at her and she did so right back. The door opened to a man of around 30 years old with a chubby round build and a scruffy beard. He wore a grey t shirt and jeans that were two sizes too large on him. He clearly wasn't used to company and shifted from foot to foot awkwardly, so a tad shy around other people. No girlfriend from the way his eyes dilated at the sight of the Russian woman standing behind her companion. Sherlock coughed and held out the hat with an outstretched arm.

"Oh, thanks for hanging on to it," The man said, taking the hat from Sherlock and running his fingers over the fabric. He probably really liked the hat, given the way his fingertips moved in circles around a few patches of cloth at the hem.

"No problem," Sherlock replied. He indicated for them to move in through the door and they followed the path through the messy flat. "So, what's this all about Mr. Shilcott?" Sherlock asked, the group moving into a room filled to the broom with train paraphernalia. Svetlana liked the idea of having a hobby and wished she could have one of her own besides knowing how to kill someone. Maybe she could take up painting…

"My girlfriend is a big fan of yours," Shilcott said.

"Girlfriend?" Sherlock and Svetlana said together in disbelief. The man stared at them confused. Svetlana's eyebrows shot up and stuttered to speak.

"Sorry. Do continue," She said, putting her hand to her neck and rubbing as if to think.

"I like trains," The man stated.

"Yes?" Sherlock provoked.

"I work on the tube, on the district line. Part of my job is to wipe the security footage after it has been cleared and I was just whizzing through and I found something a bit bizarre," He sat down in a cheap desk chair and swiveled to his computer. Sherlock turned to her and gave her a little smile as if to say, I hope this is worth our time. The man brought up the black and white footage and the couple stalked forward for a closer look.

"Now, this was a week ago, the last train on the Friday night Westminster station and this man gets into the last car,"

"Car?" Svetlana interrupts.

"They're cars not carriages; it's the legacy of the early American involvement in the tube system." The man sighed, obviously frustrated. Svetlana gave Sherlock a comical eyebrow behind the clients back and Sherlock leaned near her.

"Well he did say he liked trains," he muttered quietly. She pressed her lips together to compress a laugh bubble.

"Now the next stop, St. James' park station and…" The man said. Sherlock smiled sideways at her and turned his head to face the monitor again just as the doors slid open and no one came out. Sherlock's brows furrowed a stupidly cute crinkling forming between his eyes. His body language changed; he was fully engaged by the footage and the man showing it to him.

"Thought you'd like it. He gets into the last car at Westminster, the only passenger, and the car is empty at St. James' Park station. Explain that Mr. Holmes." They watched the footage once more while the man in the chair spoke.

"Could he not have jumped out? He doesn't appear suicidal but that type of behavior is so hard to read," Svetlana asked, playing with her bottom lip as Sherlock straightened his posture from the hunched over position he was in.

"There is a safety mechanism that prevents the doors from opening in transit, but there is something else. The driver of that train hasn't been to work since. As well as his flat mate, he's on holiday, came into some money.

"People can be bought," Svetlana said quietly. Sherlock nodded, indicating that his line of thinking was the exact same.

"So if the driver of the train was in on it then the passenger did get off," Sherlock said to train man.

"There is nowhere he could go! It's a straight line on the district line between the two stations. No side tunnels, no maintenance tunnels, nothing on any map; nothing. The train stops, a man vanishes. Good eh?" The man said. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, the pupils dancing behind his pale lids.

"I know that face," Sherlock said quietly. It was a wonder to watch his mind work, his head twitching this way and that as he saw things then put them away. Did he hear the screech of train wheels and the opening of doors, did he follow a map of the underground in his head, the colors vibrant and glowing. Where was he in his own world? The black spheres in his eyes constricted when the lids flew open. Svetlana desperately wished she could crawl inside of him and experience everything he did.

"Let's go," Sherlock said.

"Will he take it then?" the man asked from his chair, Sherlock already half out the door.

"Yes!" Svetlana said. Sherlock was standing in the stairwell when she closed the door behind her, perched like an owl.

"The time between those stations is approximately five minutes but in the video it took ten minutes. Ten minutes from Westminster to St. James' Park. We'll need maps, all the maps, all the maps, all the maps," Sherlock said, galloping down from the stairs and joining her. He was repeating things now and it was worrying her. He was worrying her. Sleep would do him well, though he rarely got any, he needed more for his wounds to heal; mental and physical.

"Fancy some chips my dear?" Sherlock said randomly, walking down to the exit.

"What?" Svetlana asked, not sure if she heard him correctly.

"I know a fantastic fish shop just off Marleybone Road, they always give me extra portions." Sherlock said. Svetlana followed close behind.

"Did you get someone off a murder charge?"

"Nope helped put up some shelves," He said with a dry humor not there before. It seemed as though his emotions were running him. They were up and down like the hills of a roller coaster and all Svetlana could do was hold on by her fingertips.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Yes I'm fine. Don't try to analyze my emotions like you do the rest of the morons we encounter, I'm not easy to read." Sherlock said flatly. Svetlana bunched her fists together, the nails cutting into her palm.

"Then don't try to hide your emotions so I wouldn't be forced to read them. You give off more than you think and I of all people should be able to know how you're feeling Sherlock."

"No one knows how I'm feeling,"

"I know they don't but I want to! Let me in Sherlock, I can't bear for you to be alone with everything in your head! Can't you see that it hurts me to be trapped on the outside like this? If I supposedly can't read you then TELL ME WHAT YOU ARE GOING THROUGH!" She hissed, grabbing both of his hands and bringing him close to put those rough palms on the smooth skin of her cheeks. He radiated no comfort and no crack in his shield of defense. The warmth on her cheeks dropped and she wheezed out, like air was kicked out of her lungs. He said nothing, but just walked out the door and down the street. Svetlana held her forehead and kicked at the handrail post before also leaving out the door and getting a cab back to Baker Street.

If he could be cold, so could she. It takes two to tango. She compartmentalized her feelings, analyzing what each one meant. Anger, because of how insulting it was to be pushed aside by the man she loved, the ONLY man she had ever loved, hurt and pain in her heart from the rejection of a bonding moment, and fear of Sherlock never letting her in, pushing her away like common filth now that they were back to reality and out of the dark cell. Could it be that she missed it, just so that Sherlock would be vulnerable with her again? Was it worth the horror of that bunker in Russia just to get him to open up and lay himself bare in front of her?

"Sorry miss, but we have to stop here," the cabbie said to her, pulling into an alleyway and stalling the car.

"какого черта вы собираетесь делать со мной?" (_What the hell are you going to do to me?_) Her voice remained steady and she calmed her heartbeat. The man turned around and smiled at her. He didn't have rape in mind, no, that was not his area. Two men in black clothes stormed the car and opened the door. She unbuckled and kicked one heel into the gut of the man to her left. The gorilla of a human being to her right grasped her upper arms and she wrestled out the opposite side, stepping over the other. Gorilla face walked towards her and she punched to the ribs, stepping on his foot. He doubled over and she took the well calculated maneuver to execute a fist to the nose, causing the nose to rupture and bleed profusely.

Arms wrapped around her waist and neck, so she kicked out behind her, hoping to make him fall and release her. When that didn't work, fear clouded her head. They were trained as well, not ordinary thugs. Filling up her lungs, the only line of defense left was a trick as old as time. She screamed; the pitch and decibel loud enough to conceivably disorient her assailants. Her mind fogged more when a white cloth was held to her mouth. She breathed in a bitter substance and her green eyes rolled closed.

"Get her in the car," a voice far in the distance said, everything fading out. Blackness hit her in waves until it completely surrounded her and her fingers stopped twitching for the gun she wished was in her palm.


	5. Chapter 5

She smelled wood and fire fuel all around, the scent overpowering her nose. She blinked through the haze of whatever drug they had mixed with the chloroform cloth and rolled her ankles to wake up her muscles. Brambles stuck into her back and pierced through her black shirt, the red coat having been removed from her. She heard someone else next to her, their breath making a steady up and down pattern. She saw lights through the heavy piles of wood around and on top of them; car headlights passing by like ghosts of hope. Her heart leapt in her chest, painfully pumping adrenaline to every one of her limbs. The person beside her stirred awake, and tried to sit up as she had, but ultimately failed. He cleared his throat and the pine needles under hem rustled, sending up another burst of dry pine smell.

Sherlock's POV

_ The chip shop was boring without her, and he hated himself for being so closed off, so vacant and distant. He loved her, and figured that maybe he would always love her, just like he loved John. How could he tell her this? Emotions were difficult and hurt too much to deal with. For years, they went to the backburner, never to be thought of except as a trap of information as to why someone would be motivated to murder someone else. He had so many things to say and so few words to put it in. The look of hurt on her face that lasted only a moment was unmistakable and chilled him to the bone. He had hurt her; HE had put that look on her face._

_Perhaps the cell in Russia had heightened his ability to confide in Svetlana, become soft to her. There was no doubt his feelings were true, but somewhere down the line he could never see them having a normal life or having the same level of intimacy as in Russia. Svetlana never said, and Sherlock hoped she didn't feel, that he felt differently toward her or that he loved her any less because of his lack of communication. _

_He wiped grease from the chips onto his jacket as he left the shop with a bag of chips for Svetlana in his hand. Generally speaking, Sherlock was never good with relationships. He had, in the past, dated a few women with no success. Usually, it was a one night stand or a dirty weekend, and then the woman never talked to him again. Svetlana was different, and Sherlock had to prove it to her. He had read in some ladies magazine his mum kept around the house when he was small that a good boyfriend brought home food and the like when apologizing. Svetlana wasn't exactly the typical woman but even a Russian sniper must like food after a fight right? _

_The walk to the flat gave him enough time to think about what he was going to say. He gazed up at the dark window and scowled. She hadn't come home yet. She was a perfectly capable woman and could handle herself. He fit the key in the lock and walked up to the flat, turning on the light. His violin sat dusty in the corner, neglected and alone. _

_The wood of the neck was smooth under his fingertips and the strings were highly out of tune, but he brought out a cloth and wiped the Stradivarius off gently, paying the instrument and obscene amount of tenderness. The sound of footsteps and a pair of voices in the hallway disturbed him, so he sat up with the violin bow and began to wipe it down as well. _

"_Oh Mrs. Hudson I'm so- I, I think someone's got John. John Watson?" _

"_Hang On! Who are you?" the poor excitable landlady cried._

"_Oh I'm his fiancé," Mary said._

"_Mary!" Sherlock called out, still wiping at the bow. "What's wrong?" Sherlock asked. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he plunged his hand holding the cloth into the appropriate pocket to pull out the slim black frame. _

"_Someone sent me this. At first I thought it was just a bible thing, spam you know, but it's not. It's a skip code," Mary said to Sherlock, whose attention was on opening a text message from a random number. _

_Save big on _

_Russian beauty bride Svetlana_

_Saint or sinner?_

_James connects you_

_The busty or less? _

"_Every three letters. Save John Watson and Save Russian Svetlana and… no," Sherlock dropped his violin bow and phone, the objects bouncing onto the hideous red carpet. He ran down the stairs with Mary close behind._

"_Where are we going?" She shouted. _

"_Saint James the Less, it's a place, twenty minutes from here. Did you drive here?" He asked frantically. Svetlana and John were in danger, both of whom he had left conflicts unresolved with. If they died, he would live with the pain of not being able to express his feelings for the rest of his life. _

"_Yeah yes1" Mary replied frantically. _

"_Too slow too slow," Sherlock paced quickly in the street, trying to think. A car swerved around him, honking at the man in the street. _

"_Sherlock what are we waiting for?!" Mary cried. His eyes locked onto the oncoming object and directed his body in front of it. _

"_This," he replied, holding a flat palm out to the motorcycle stopping inches from killing him. The biker shrugged his shoulders and kicked down the stop. _

"_Oi what the bloody fuck mate?" the man said, his partner climbing off and pulling her helmet off. Sherlock plucked the helmet from the man and did the same to the woman, tossing the other to Mary. _

"_Sorry, so sorry," Sherlock said, straddling the powerful beast and had Mary climb on as well. He started the bike and rushed into traffic head on, ignoring the calls of protest from the man and woman. He followed the map before his eyes, directing the handle bars to the right and left as needed, cursing slow drivers. _

_(turn right here ETA: 10 minutes St. James the Less) _

_Mary gripped to him, positively terrified or seemingly terrified. She showed him the surface of her phone and he took his eyes from the road to read. _

_Getting warmer Mr. Holmes. 10 minutes and counting_

"_What are they going to do to him? To them?" Mary said through the helmet. _

"_I don't know," Sherlock said, horrid scenarios going through his mind, having to choose between his best friend and the love of his life. 8 minutes and counting said the next text. Sherlock growled in frustration. He turned onto another street and desperately revved the engine for more speed. _

End of Sherlock's POV

Svetlana struggled with the ropes around her wrists. The man beside her was panting and sucking as much air as possible into his lungs. She couldn't see anything, but she could hear people. Children laughed and adults muffled voices followed. The man beside her tried to scream, tried to make noise to alert to someone, anyone, that he was alive.

The smoky smell of wood burning got closer and an orange light illuminated the cracks at the bottom. She was going to go up in flames.

"It's not going to work. I'll go get something to help it along," a man said. Her throat was dry but she tried to remain calm, confident she could get out if only her hands could get free.

"He doesn't like it daddy. Guy Fawkes, he doesn't like it," A little girl said.

"Stay back, sally. Back, now." The man replied. Gasoline was the next smell to assault her nostrils. Some of the liquid landed on the hollow of her cheek. She shook her face to keep it away from her eyes and mouth. The ropes cut into her skin, making the pale flesh peel and chafe underneath the harsh fiber. There was more squirming from her side. If only she knew who was behind her, who else they were trying to dispose of.

Fire surrounded her like the sea. They licked up the wood, eating it away. Fire takes what it wants, there is no doubting that. It gives not a heed to what it might be destroying, leaving everything in its wake to waste.

"Help!" The man beside her choked out. A little girl screamed. Everything else happened in slow motion. Her cheek got very hot, and soon her skin was searing. She howled in pain and thrashed around to rid herself of the heat, the very sensation of her skin flaying. GetAwayGetAwayGetAway her mind shouted at her, her body protecting itself.

"Move move move MOVE! John… SVETLANA!" Sherlock's voice called over the crackling of wood to close to her ears. She sobbed at the pain of her face.

"John!" A woman shouted, over and over.

"Help!" the man shouted. The man behind her was John. A cooler light shone in front of her fading eyes. The wood was torn away and Svetlana screamed again, wishing for all the world the pain on her face and now her neck would go away.

"Grab him Mary! Svetlana, Svetlana look at me. Svetlana!" someone said. A gloved hand put out the fire on her cheek and touched the open flesh. She cried out again, the pressure of even gentle fingers too much. Her hearing was fading fast and her eyes didn't fare much better.

"мой эльф" he whispered. The world faded dark. Was she dying? Was this the end of pain?


	6. Chapter 6

The steady rhythm of a heart monitor woke her up and her fingers clenched around someone else's hand. Her mind fought for clarity. Memories of fire flashed behind her eyes. The air smelled like disinfectant and sick. Machines beeped the rhythm of life. Scratchy bed sheets irritated her skin. Faintly, she acknowledged a dull pain on the right side of her face. There were voices everywhere, pulling her back into reality.

"Sherlock you need to go home and rest. They said they'd call you wh-"

"I don't need rest! I need to be here when she wakes up. Under serious stress, her English is very poor and it may cause panic." That was Sherlock's voice. That was her Sherlock, showing emotion and caring about her, telling the world he loved her in his own way. Her consciousness surged towards the lovely baritones of his voice, aching to be awake.

"She's fine; the doctor's said she would be okay! Jesus, why do you care? What is she to you, an assistant or a handler, one of your little homeless soldiers? What?" a voice she identified as Doctor John Watson said across the room, probably near the door.

"Sh-Sherlock?" Svetlana tried out her sore vocal chords, mentally cursing the weak sound that protruded from her lips. She hated seeming weak and frail like the little girl that was orphaned on the streets.

"Here, I'm right here. Svetlana I'm right here." Sherlock reassured, placing his hands delicately on one of hers, squeezing around her tiny calloused hands. Slowly, she lifted her heavy transparent lids and blinked her bright green eyes open. Her lover's worried face focused in front of her. It was clear he had been crying before Doctor Watson had entered the room, the redness of tearful eyes ringing the lower waterline. The corners of her mouth tipped up to smile, but when she tried the right side of her face stretched and tore painfully, causing her to whine in pain. He grimaced and laid his head in their clasped hands, hiding his emotions from the audience in the room. Desperate to know what he was feeling, she tipped his head up and came face to face with tears pouring out of his sweet blue green eyes.

"This is my fault, all my fault. If I had been with you, you wouldn't be in this damn hospital," Sherlock said quietly. Svetlana hushed him with her fingertip.

"Sherlock this is not your fault, you couldn't have known. It was wrong of me to yell at you for something so completely in your nature. Come here," She beckoned to him and he laid a light kiss on her lips. Someone scoffed in the background and Sherlock gingerly moved away from their embrace to turn around and stare hard at John. The army doctor was locked in position, eyes blown wide and an incredulous smile painted across his face.

"Oh my god, I cannot believe- Christ. So you and her- She's your girlfriend? What happened to mister-not-my-area-married-to-my-work?" John shifted from foot to foot and looked at her, then back at Sherlock.

"What happened to not attached? People change John." Sherlock replied simply, waving off the sarcasm in John's tone. The doctor nodded, mentally swallowing the facts. Her Consulting Detective turned to face her once again, stroking her good cheek. "I'm going to show you what happened," He warned her, pulling a hand held mirror off the side table and holding it for her to see the damage.

The skin on her cheekbone and near her ear was bandaged, a bit of pink slipping out in patches but nothing large. Her hair had been singed, so it was cut very short in one large chunk. There was only a little bit of burn on her neck, also bandaged. Overall, it wasn't terrifying. He took the mirror away when she tapped his wrist.

"It's not so bad. You can still tell it's me," She tried a bit of humor. Sherlock choked on a laugh, his lips curving.

"Oh dear, look at the poor boy he's distraught! Oh Sherly, we're so glad you're back! Mikey told us all about you're very special girl! She's lovely aside from the injury! You both look like you're in a bad way, positively dreadful!" an elderly woman, followed by an elderly man in a jumper, bustled towards the bed and Sherlock, who was slowly trying to inch away. The woman paid that no mind and hugged the tall man fiercely.

"You are Svetlana I believe. Oh love thank you for taking care of him," the woman said kindly.

"Um Sherlock, who?" John asked, confused.

"No one. No actually they are leaving." Sherlock said, pulling free of the woman's grasp and dragging the couple by their elbows out the door.

"Are we? Well we are here till Saturday so be sure to give us a ring," the woman said over the hustle and bustle.

"Yes yes yes just get out get out," Sherlock said, closing the door until it was stopped mid-swing by a heavy booted foot.

"I can't tell you how glad we are Sherlock, all that time people thinking the worst of you, we're so pleased it's all over." She whispered, Sherlock tried to shut the door again and failed.

"Ring more often won't you? She worries!" The elderly man said.

"Promise?" She asked. Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder before whispering back.

"Promise." The woman reached a hand to pat his face and he pulled away, finally successful in shutting the door. He smoothed his suit and looked none too pleased when Svetlana gave him an amused look.

"So who were they?" John asked, completely clueless.

"Those were my parents," Sherlock said, striding over to take Svetlana's hand in his again. John's eyebrows rose.

"Your- your parents. Those were your parents?" he ran to the window in the door and looked down the hall where they left.

"Yes. They're in town for a few days. Mycroft set them on me I'm sure of it." Sherlock replied distastefully, sitting down in his chair beside her bed and kissing the back of her hand.

"But they look so…" John started. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and a small knowing smile.

"What?"

"Ordinary." John said with a laugh. Sherlock smiled too and chuckled a bit.

"My cross to bear," he replied. Svetlana tried to smile and could feel her eyes closing on her, wiped out by the medication and the energy it took to wake up. Of course Sherlock noticed and placed her hand over her stomach.

"Sleep, Мой эльф. You need it," Sherlock sang tenderly. She did as directed and drifted off to sleep again, already formulating a plan on how to break out of the hospital. She hated hospitals.


End file.
